


The Kissing Dance

by brutti_ma_buoni



Category: Normal People - Sally Rooney
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28173333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brutti_ma_buoni/pseuds/brutti_ma_buoni
Summary: It is the future, and Connell and Marianne still orbit one another. Just occasionally, there is an opportunity to collide.
Relationships: Marianne Sheridan/Connell Waldron
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The Kissing Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perfectlystill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/gifts).



> Set in the future. As far as you'd like it to be.
> 
> This is not the Booker Prize. Just, like the Booker Prize. 
> 
> I'm sorry there are speech marks, recip, as I know you've read the book as well as loved the TV series. But I'm not Sally Rooney, I can't help myself with punctuation.
> 
> For people not my recipient, please know the touch of infidelity in this is by request - but be warned if that's not your thing.

“How do you feel?” How does he feel? God, that’s always been the hardest question to answer. 

“Good,” he says, which is safe. “My Mam will be proud.” Interviewers love this shit, he has learned. And it’s true, which is more than he usually can say for his interviews. Though Lorraine will also be sceptical of this nomination, which won’t lead to huge sales, just a little more buzz. 

In truth, the nomination is welcome insofar as it quiets, again, those internal voices that doubt, again, that what he does has value. 

*

MARIANNE: _Saw you on RTE, yet. Playing the aw shucks Galway lad. Nice work._

CW: _Thanks. I’m pleased._

MARIANNE: _Yeah, yeah, and so’s your Mam. You taking her to the do?_

CW: _I might have to. She’ll hate the shoes._

MARIANNE: _Wait, I was joking. What about Sandra?_

CW: _SONDRA_

CW: _Ah, what does it matter? She left me, you can misname her all you want._

MARIANNE: _Sorry._

MARIANNE: _About the name. Otherwise, you know she was a drag, you’re better this way._

MARIANNE: _But if Lorraine doesn’t fancy the trip, I might have reason to be in London on that date._

*

She knows, really, that awards ceremonies are terrible. Her own industry awards are a gig she has dodged consistently for the last five years. Not easy, when there are so many. But she has a reputation that helps it to stick. But this award matters to Connell, enough that he's crossed the Atlantic for it. And it is renowned. Televised. Not the kind of event you want to come to alone. Which is why she offered, of course. 

Also why she has a new dress, and why her hair is up, to emphasise her elegant neck, but with tendrils falling to disguise the very slightest softening of her jaw. Technically, she has not seen Connell for almost two years in the flesh. It seems impossible, but she knows she will see changes in him, and that will be reciprocal. He isn’t a Promising Young Irish Writer now. He is bordering on Literary Establishment. And she is… well. She is a suitable red carpet partner for literary lion Connell Waldron.

*

There are flashbulbs, paparazzi-style. He wasn’t expecting that. This award is a big deal, for sure. Even the American press will take note if he wins. But that this is a media event, that is surprising. There’s a woman with a BBC microphone gesturing to him. Marianne makes straight for her, and he follows. 

The nape of her neck is bare, above her wrap, and he watches the tiny ringlets fly as she greets “Rosie” as an old friend. 

“Yes, Connell and I go way back. To high school, yet. We don’t get to see one another much these days, but I’m delighted our schedules aligned so I could keep him company on his big night.” She has always been so good at spinning tales, putting the acceptable gloss on this night, and on them. Using her real public profile to prop up his questionable recognition levels. He suspects someone will label them a Media Power Couple tomorrow, and can only look forward to the disdain in the message she will send to inform him of it. 

“Do you think you’ll win?” asks Rosie. 

“No,” he says. He would never say yes. Never will, even though he has, at times, been very successful. A world of therapists sit at his shoulder, pointing this out. Rosie, who can’t see them, is clearly taken aback at the bald monosyllable. 

“Ah, you can’t ask a superstitious man such a question on his big night,” says Marianne, tucking her arm into his, and laughing. Spinning, spinning. Is he superstitious, he wonders, as Rosie asks exactly that, and receives a web of Marianne-spun foolishness in response. Not really. But he would never be so bold as to assume victory in this life. 

It’s as well he didn’t, because this is not his night. “It’s an honour just to be nominated,” he says to Rosie, afterwards. “What a wonderful night.”

The off-brand cava they have been serving has helped to loosen him up. And he has learned from Marianne, in the two hours they have been together. She navigates this situation as he cannot, but he learns fast. 

Outside the reception, a top-hatted guy beckons them a cab. “Where to?” says the driver. 

Marianne leans forward, a shadow in the orange streetlights. “The Dorchester,” she says. Not even asking. 

*

“Does he know you’re here?” Connell asks. 

“Of course.” Marianne has never been a fool, and Joel has never been blind. There was plenty of media presence at the ceremony, it could never have been a secret. Besides, she has never felt the need to keep Connell a secret from Joel. It’s one of the reasons that they work. 

Her room is not a palace, but it’s still plush enough that he will feel off-balance. She orders whiskey from room service, enough to keep him relaxed. There are velvet chairs, good enough for sitting together and talking, for now. 

His hands on the glass are too big for its light crystal. He should handle more flexible things, that won’t break in his tension. Now the performance is done, his shoulders are slumped with defeat. She doesn’t want that for him, or from him, just now.

She raises her own glass. “Congratulations, you. It’s a huge deal, you know.”

He does not reciprocate. “I know. But it doesn’t mean anything, really. And I was never going to win.” 

“You will,” she says. Surprised, he looks up at her. She doesn’t usually articulate this. She should perhaps say more. About how his work moves her, how she sees echoes of them in some of his stories and learns more about who he was when she had him. How the stories which come just from him make her mind sing and see untold possibilities. But she lets him sit with those words, and her faith in him. Sometimes, she has said too much to Connell, and this might be one of those times, if she allowed herself. He doesn’t trust her journalist tongue.

He takes a swallow of the whiskey, and puts the frail glass down. “You came here for me,” he says. The obvious, stated deliberately. He is setting a mood. 

“I did,” she admits. 

“You dressed up for me. Performed for me.” All truths. He is delighting in them. He is letting her feel his agency in this. She has not been boozing him up to take advantage. When he invited her to be his guest, no matter how much prompting she gave, he put her into this role. She is his.

“I did,” she says, again. 

“You don’t have to perform for me, Marianne Sheridan.” He stands up, and moves not towards her but to the window, to stand with his back to the city. “But I love when you do.”

She puts her own glass down. The click of crystal on coaster sounds like a starting gun. 

“Take your dress off,” he says. She is moving before he speaks, and he holds up a hand. “Slowly. I want to watch.”

She loves this. This confidence he has now, with her. He may still not believe in his own work, but he believes that she wants him, and trusts him. He will not hurt her, and that will never be quite enough for her, perhaps. But he can give her this, and he will take from her too.

The catch at her neck gives easily, and the dress slips down, unhindered by the little she has on under it. He laughs, a breath, and says, “Jesus, Sheridan, go easy. I’m an old man.”

She turns away, and walks to the bed. Removes the counterpane, the bolster, the ridiculous hotel cushions. She peels back the covers and slips off her last clothes. He is still at the window. 

She slides onto the sheets. Egyptian. A billion thread count. Cool and slippery on her skin. “What do you want?” she says. 

“This.” He laughs. “Just this.”


End file.
